this morning I turned the lights on the third floor and walked between the stacks. my boots on the tile, and the hush of the hardcovers as I pick out great modern paintings.

that scene in pleasantville when he opens the art book and suddenly everything's in color and he doesn't understand why the woman is crying? such a great scene.

we always say how the libraries are dying. but not in a righteous blaze like bradbury's. there's no enemy wearing indifferent black coats beside a pyre. the books are still there. we just forget.

ash @ 12:06 AM